Silver in Ebony
by kkolmakov
Summary: Just a small glimpse into my obsession with Thorin's grey strands *No infringement intended* One-Shot


The music is loud, pipes and drums sending vibrations through your core. The court is loud, the wine is flowing freely, hands are clapping, boots thumping on the floor. You smile to familiar faces, accept gifts, bestow bows and nods. Every time you turn your head, you see your king smiling at you. Your eyes are having a silent conversation, exchanging opinions, telling jokes, making promises for when you are alone later. Both of you move around the hall always certain where the other one is. Him, unusually tall for a dwarf, you, short for a human, your eyes meet over the heads of your friends. They are full of love, merriment, passion and lust. All these feelings intertwine and mingle, fused with wine and your hunger for each other, they make you move faster and your head is beginning to spin. The circles you make around the room to greet your guests and share their joy, the loops you are weaving are getting tighter, every turn dangerously closer and closer to him. Your body is singing for his, soon enough you are almost touching when passing him. Next time you slip and brush your fingers over his hand. Your breath hitches and your step breaks its rhythm. Immediately his large palm envelops your hand and you are pulled towards a balcony. You are keeping a polite smile on your face, still nodding to those you pass but you suspect that some of your guests notice that the king is dragging you to a secluded balcony with a haste more suitable for a libidinous youngling than a respected leader and an experienced warrior with silver in his hair.

And oh how much you adore the argent strands in his raven mane! They glisten when you run your fingers through them, they shine on your pillow when lying awake you indulge in staring at the sleeping face of your lover. You notice their sparkling when his hair curtain you from the rest of the world while his weight deliciously presses you into the sheets. When he moves above you, the braids caress you face, stroking your shoulders and breasts. You catch the heavy beads at the ends with your teeth and the quiet clank makes him laugh. When you straddle him and he is smiling at you, you lower your head and place soft kisses on his cheeks. He closes his eyes, dark luscious lashes laying deep shadows under them. You kiss his brows and cup his face. He looks at you again and you brush your fingertips over the sterling tresses. You lower your lips to his ear and whisper a familiar joke: "You are getting old, my king". He swiftly rolls you underneath him eliciting an undignified squeak out of you. "Such insolence from such a pretty mouth", he rumbles biting your shoulder. You guffaw and wrap your legs around his waist. "Why, my king, I am your humble subject", he sneers, "reverently serving my lord". "Your serving", he lifts his left brow, you snigger, "is highly appreciated".

But most of all you love the white threads in his sable hair when you share a steaming bath, with herbs and flowers flowing in the water, emanating the grassy and spicy fragrance. He sits between your thighs, his back pressed to your breasts. You absent-mindedly stroke his shoulders, both of you serene and sated. He leans back and lowers his head on your shoulder. You caress his chest, sliding your palms over the firm muscles and white scars. You nuzzle his temple and gently bite his ear. It is sensitive, which he considers a slightly embarrassing secret. It immediately reddens and his large hand squeezes you thigh a little too high. You smile a wicked smile and continue his assault on the tender lobe. Your teeth and tongue evoke a low rumble in his chest. "Are you certain you are prepared to the repercussions of your actions, zundush?" You snicker. "May be a bit later". You stretch and take a bottle of soap bark extract. You lather some between your palms and rub it into his hair and scalp. It is a laborious task, heavy ebony strands snaking through your fingers. He sits straighter and you kneel behind him. The tub is spacious enough, and after washing his hair fastidiously you move allowing him to lean all the way back. He disappears under water and then resurfaces. His long nose that you worship reemerges first, then the rest of your king's beloved face. He opens laughing eyes and winks at you. The onyx and the sterling writhe around you, swirling around your breasts, tickling, firing up lustful flames quickly spreading through your body. You tread you fingers through them and impulsively catch his smiling mouth with your hungry lips. The kiss is askew. He gracefully turns his wide body in a fluid motion as if suddenly made of liquid himself, lava perhaps, his scorchingly hot arms encircling your eager body.

You feel the same familiar contours of hard muscles through the festive garment when he presses you into the wall of the balcony. His lips are greedy, his eyes seem almost angry from the hunger burning in them. "I have a suspicion", he manages through the clenched teeth while his hands are busy with the strings at the front of your outer tunic, "that you have been taunting me all through the evening, my queen". His right hand snakes inside your garment and searing hot palm cups your breast through the delicate fabric. You are too busy gasping for air to feign innocence, his hot mouth on the pulse on the left side of your neck. You moan openly, your legs failing to support your weight. His left hand pushes you up and into him, squeezing your left buttock. You completely toss any traces of propriety aside and grabbing him around the neck you hang on him, brazenly grinding your hips into his. He bites your neck and you almost growl. You retaliate by biting his ear. He does not contain his growl, both hands now on your bottom. He lifts you up and then sits you on a low bench. He falls on his knees, spreads yours and moves between them. "My lord, we are not making love on this bench with all our guests just behind the wall", you push his hands away from the buckle on the belt around your breeches. He lifts his face from your neck and you are gifted with a view of a smug lopsided smirk. "Are we not?", he lifts a seductive brow, his eyes dangerous, almost black. You kiss him softly. "We aren't", he snarls, you kiss him again, "we are sneaking over the balcony rails and are to make love on the roof". He jumps on his feet and offers you his hand. "Dwarves hate heights, my lady", he pulls you into passionate embrace. "Storage room it is", you answer, "I am very accommodating to desires of a certain dwarf".


End file.
